


it's so easy in this blue

by potterpav



Category: The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: M/M, No Smut, adult boris and theo, boris being boris, boris tries to remind him of vegas, even after everything they find each other, kitsey doesn't exist here, little to no angst, not really in the tgf timeline, soft, theo finds boris again, theo has amnesia of vegas, theo is ... theo, this is my first fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:22:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23494522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potterpav/pseuds/potterpav
Summary: theo gets amnesia after las vegas and meets boris again, and falls in love with him for the second time <3
Relationships: Theodore Decker & Boris Pavlikovsky, Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky
Comments: 17
Kudos: 77





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first ever fic that i've written ! this fic won't be extremely long and is mainly fluff + theo re-figuring out his past .  
> title from 'buzzcut season' by lorde !
> 
> planning on 3 chapters !

“My name is Theodore Decker.

I am 23 years old. I live in New York, with a man called Hobie, in an old antique store called Hobart & Blackwell. I sell furniture. I wear glasses that I must not forget. I used… I used to live… in…” But I trail off.

I don’t know where I used to live.

I remember that it was hot, and dusted. And there was always the sun burning my shoulders. But I don’t know where. And I don’t remember with who. I have been told I lost my memory at 19, but I didn’t remember. I was told it was an overdose of something… and I had a seizure. I’ve been told I was unconscious for two days, and I woke up knowing nothing.

Although, some things have jogged my memory. I didn’t recognise Hobie’s face until I saw the door of the shop, until I saw the green bell–what was once a murky memory, became crystal clear in one short, sharp, painless blink. My room still gets searched by Hobie. He still doesn’t trust me. He told me that I had come to him like a bird coming home to roost.

He won’t tell me where from.

He says it will be too hard for me to hear.

Maybe at some point, he will tell me how I ended up here.

I don’t remember most people, but I do remember my mother. I remember her brown hair, and her nicknames. I remember her love for art. I think I used to like art, but whenever I try to remember: my ribs start to ache, and I begin to breathe too rapidly. Hobie always puts his hands on my shoulders and tells me to calm down.

But she was the only thing I saw when woke up. Her outstretched hand at the end of my hospital bed, motioning to come with her. But I couldn’t move. I was paralysed, and I didn’t know where I was. And then I blinked–I must have scared her away, because I haven’t seen her since.

And I’m left wondering if she will ever come back for me, and if she was the one who left me here. At Hobie’s doorstep. Hobie is not my father, I know for certain. He has told me, but I also _knew_. I can’t picture my father, but the feeling I get in my stomach tells me _Hobie is not him._

The amnesia was a while ago now, but it is still stuck into my mind like a fishing hook. I feel exhausted all the time. Sometimes I forget where I am, sometimes I forget how to do simple things–but usually I remember if I think hard enough.

Walking down the streets of New York feels familiar. People crashing into you, no sense of space. People who catch your eye that you won’t ever see again. High heels, manicured nails, dark curls. But when I am in large crowds, I get that feeling. The feeling of _you shouldn’t be here, you need to run, you need to get out_ that I’m unable to explain. Something is tapping its claws against the front of my brain, it’s trying to get out but it can’t. Every time I’m in a crowd, a memory is trying to escape: but it never gets far enough.

“One flat white please,” I tell the barista, “But no sugar.”

He nods and turns, clinking mugs and filling metal jugs with boiling water. I begin to look around for a spare table, and there was one in the back corner: tucked away from the noise. It was early evening, and the sun was setting–the sky looked beautiful, painted with many different shades of gold.

I collected my coffee and paid the man, squeezing between people to get to my table that I had taken in my mind. I thought I heard someone calling my name, but I ignored it.

Sometimes I imagined things.

When I sat down, I swirled the drink with my spoon, staring into space. I wasn’t sure what I was thinking, maybe about how I ended up in such a precarious position. Maybe about my mother. Maybe about my life _before_.

Suddenly, someone sat in the soft leather chair opposite me.

“Is it really you?” They asked.

I looked up at them. Their voice… sounded familiar. It sounded foreign, it had a sharp edge, but at the same time it was soft.

“Uh…?” Was all I knew how to say, when their eyes were so big and dark, their coat long, their face pale.

“Potter?” They finally said. I had never been in this situation. I tried to scrape my old brain together, desperately going over everyone I knew. But their face didn’t come up. I didn’t know who ‘potter’ was.

“Um,” I replied, placing my spoon down on the saucer, “I’m sorry. Who are you?”

“Theo?” They asked, making it sound like te-o, their accent making it hard to fit my name in their mouth.

I continued staring, waiting for them to answer my question.

The person opposite me seemed to collapse like a house of cards. Their eyes frowned, sunken cheeks turned downwards. I wish I could remember, why did I have to be so selfish? I didn’t want to hurt anyone, but it seems like I’m too late.

“You do not remember?” They asked, almost in disbelief. I was starting to panic now, my brain flipping through any memories of _before,_ but like usual: nothing new emerged. Not even in a time like this.

I shook my head.

“It’s me,” They tried, “Boris?”

Something ticked in the back of my brain.

_Boris. Boris. Boris._

Something to do with sand.

“The sand?” I accidentally said before I could stop myself, getting a confused look from the smudged figure.

“Sand?” He repeated. I didn’t know how to continue this conversation. Did I know him? The tapping in my brain is telling me I do, but I couldn’t explain my life to a stranger who is convinced they know me.

_Potter?_

_Theo?_

_Boris._

“This is… awkward,” I started speaking again, I felt like I had no control. My hands were starting to sweat as they rested on my knees, the room suddenly gained temperature, “Where would I have known you from?”

I felt like the question was valid, but my tongue dried up. His eyes looking into mine threw me off, they were engulfing. He had dark circles around his eyes, like eyeshadow. It was the colour of plum, it made him look ill. _Potter?_

“Long time ago,” He sounded unsure too, “In Vegas?”

 _Vegas._ That hit me like a tonne of bricks. Something is trying to get out, something in my head–still, always clawing like a digging mole. I closed my eyes for a minute. I didn’t want to imagine how I looked to _Boris._

“I think there has been mistake.” He stood up but I grabbed his wrist, he couldn’t leave. I need to work this out, work it through. If Hobie won’t tell me, maybe he will.

“No, I just–” I tried to force my words out of my mouth, but they wouldn’t fall, “I am Theodore.”

The man didn’t seem alarmed that I grabbed for him, and I was surprisingly not alarmed either. His name was bouncing round my head like stars falling forever. _Boris. Boris. Boris. Boris?_

“Your name is Boris?” I said to him, pulling him to sit back down. Repeating names often made them stick in my head for longer, like Velcro–sometimes the name becomes too worn down for me to remember anymore.

“Yes.” His voice _seemed_ familiar. It sounded right in my head.

“And I would’ve known you from Vegas?”

He nodded, stronger this time.

“I’m Theodore Decker.” I told him.

“It is you?” _Boris_ suddenly sounded overjoyed again, and I was afraid that this was all going to go wrong.

“Yes, sort of…” I wanted to explain.

“Sort of?” _Boris_ repeated. I couldn’t start heavy breathing now, not in a place like this. I felt a slight wave of nausea rise through me, and I gripped slightly to the chair I was sitting in.

“I need to say something,” I told him, and he nodded–already listening, “And if at any time I say something you don’t recognise… Stop me.” He looked slightly confused again but he shrugged, leaning back into his armchair and slotting one leg over the other.

“I’m Theodore Decker,” _He already knows that_ “And I guess I was with you in Vegas,” _He knows that, too,_ “But I have forgotten you.”

His mouth dropped open, his eyebrows falling into a confused angle so fast I thought for a moment they would drop off his face.

“It’s not what you think, though,” I started again, trying my best to ignore him, “I had a seizure at age 19, and I forgot everything that happened in my life before then.” I tapped the side of my head, on my temple, with my index finger.

 _Boris’s_ face seemed to flick through a shockingly fast range of emotions, settling finally into what can only be described as _fuck._

“Is this joke?” He said after some time. I shook my head, _I wish it was,_ I thought.

“You don’t remember anything?” He asked, sitting forward, silver rings on his fingers clinking together as he cracked his knuckles. I shook my head again.

“Do you remember your mother?” He asked again, and I looked at him.

“Yes.”

“Do you know where she is?” I don’t know why he’s asking me this.

I can feel my breathing turn heavy. I shake my head again. Maybe if I shake it enough, all my memories will come back in one failing swoop.

“You are same Theo,” He told me, “Allow me to introduce myself.” He placed out his hand for me to take, “My name is Boris Pavlikovsky. You don’t remember me, but I remember you. And we met in Las Vegas.”

I was finally nodding, his name was long. He would have to say it a lot. But his hands were nice to hold, they weren’t as cold as they looked. He wasn’t as cold as he looked. Seemingly frozen, but his hands were warm.

“We met at age 13. You were in Vegas for 4 years.” _Boris_ continued telling me. _Vegas… I came from Vegas? From Vegas to Hobie?_ That’s why my brain was scratching at me, it all clicked together suddenly.

_Vegas._

The sand.

Some of the best and worst days of my life. But I still don’t remember _Boris._

“We were inseparable.” He said, a smile sitting behind his words. Another person I don’t know. He had the same feeling as the girl with the red hair. I couldn’t remember her name–Hobie loved her very much. There was a photo of her above the fireplace, but I never spoke of her. I always get the feeling that I shouldn’t.

“I’m sorry I can’t remember you.” I said quietly, but he only smiled.

“Is okay,” He laughed suddenly, a short, sharp laugh, “We start a clean slate.” I nodded again, I need to know what my life was like _before_. He seemed interesting. I wanted to know him more–he could lead me to unanswered questions. _Boris._ I’ve already forgotten his last name.

He sobered suddenly, “Do you still remember…” he cut off his sentence to draw a rectangle in the air with his fingers. His face was painted with a question, but he hadn’t finished his sentence.

We sat for a silent moment. I didn’t know what he was talking about.

“Remember what?”

I think _Boris_ was about to say _you know,_ but then realised I don’t. I’m stumbling through the dark, I don’t know.

He bit his bottom lip slightly, holding my gaze as if it would make me remember. His eyes were hypnotic–but no amount of staring could help me.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I sound like a small, clueless child. And I suppose I am, starting everything from scratch again, only knowing the how to talk and walk. Learning new faces, learning names I should know. I meet a man who is clearly overjoyed to see me, but I don’t recognise him.

Although, his hair seems familiar.

“Your hair.” I said.

 _Boris_ looked up to his forehead, running his hands through the curls. He was wearing all black. He had leather bracelets on. There was a tattoo on his wrist in a language I couldn’t recognise–maybe if I concentrated I could. There was a star, too–the Star of David–that I did know. I was surprised at how quickly random, slightly unneeded information came back to me. I wish I remembered my friends… if I had any. I’ve already forgotten his last name.

“What about it?” He asked, looking at me. His eyes wandered all across my face, his head tilted slightly to one side. I wondered what this was like for him: his seemingly childhood best friend, completely forgotten about him. No memory at all. But maybe my memory will come back.

“It’s familiar.” I say quietly, but I don’t know why.

“See,” _Boris_ smiled wider, “I am beginning to come back!” He laughed, flashing a bright smile. His teeth were so white, I didn’t want to look away from his smile.

“You can go places on your own, no?” Boris asked him. I nodded. My coffee had gone cold. I forgot about my coffee.

“We go,” He told me, “Back to my apartment.”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to. I felt tired. I’ve already forgotten his last name.

“I don’t remember your last name.” I said abruptly.

“Pavlikovsky,” He repeated, placing a hand on my shoulder once I had slipped my coat back on, “Pav-li-kov-sky.” He sounded it all out a second time.

_Boris Pavlikovsky._

“I need to tell Hobie where I am going.” I said, taking out my phone. The only person I text is Hobie–which might seem sad. But it doesn’t bother me. The texts are usually some variation of “What is …?” and “I’m going to…”, but Hobie rarely replies. He leaves the messages on ‘seen’–but that’s the only reassurance I needed: I only need him to know that he is aware of what I’m doing.

“Hobie?” _Boris_ laughed. I wasn’t joking.

“Your old man?” He continued, “Am glad you still live with him.”

I didn’t know what that meant, but I decided to follow him out of the café. His voice was becoming less murky now. The way it sliced through everything else. I wondered what he was like as a young boy. Now, as a young man, he seemed strong and confident within himself.

I think I like _Boris._ But I’ve already forgotten his last name.


	2. heads inside a dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part 2 of 3 ! chapter title once again from 'buzzcut season' by lorde !  
> i hope you're enjoying it & thank you for the kudos and comments <3

_Boris_ had put his cell phone number into mine, and he has been trying to remind me of situations from _Vegas_. He had added his last name so I could remember it. I hadn’t told Hobie that I met him–there was never a good time to bring him up–and I felt like I was hiding some guilty secret that might get me hurt.

It had been a week since I met _Boris_ , but he was nice. With his long name and long coat. His apartment was dark, it looked unused.

I didn’t like it.

He had texted me “ _still at furniture shop, yes? will drop by later”_ earlier this morning, and I didn’t know what to say. Did Hobie know him? Did Hobie know anything about _Vegas?_ Would this unravel everything?

I wasn’t sure I wanted to know, but the situation was out of my control. I didn’t like situations being out of my control.

_Boris_ arrived in the evening, just after the shop had shut.

“ _Potter_!” He chimed as he pushed open the door that said “Closed”.

I looked up from the counter and smiled, his voice cut through everything–even though the shop was silent, I knew that his voice would cut through a crowd.

“ _Boris._ ” I replied, walking around the counter.

I suddenly felt too big for the room. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to shake his hand or hug him. What would _Vegas Potter_ have done?

He heard Hobie walk up from the basement, asking “Who is it, Theo? The store has closed–” but his voice cut off. Hobie had recognised _Boris._ Hobie knew who this dark smudge was.

_Boris_ clearly recognised him, too.

The guilty secret burned brighter.

“Hobie,” I tried, “This is–”

“– _Boris_.” Hobie finished, hands clasped, no smile on his face.

_Boris_ didn’t say anything. I think he felt that guilt, too–somehow.

The room was quiet as we all stood there. It was too quiet, it started beating in my head.

“I met _Boris_ in that café the other day,” I said, trying to make peace and trying to avoid the word ‘again’. I met _Boris_ again the other day. I met _Boris_ for the second time. I met a man who seems to be larger than life. He seemed to smile at the corner of his mouth when I spoke, wearing the same coat as before.

It suited him. He looked like a gangster from the old movies.

I hadn’t asked him what he did for a living. I felt too afraid of the answer.

How did I ever _really_ know him? There are people you meet, and there are people you get to know: _Boris_ didn’t seem like the type you ‘knew’, but more the type you met and then never pried into their life. But there was something there I recognised, in those pale hands and those eyebags that were four shades too dark. He had something hidden about him.

“Is wonderful to see you, Hobie.” _Boris_ finally said, stretching his hand out for Hobie to shake–which he did but with a frown on his face.

I hadn’t seen Hobie this shaken up in a long time.

Hobie didn’t reply to _Boris’s_ comment, he simply hummed and gave me a look that I was unable to process.

My brain was too muddled.

I was tired.

Hobie had walked into the kitchen when nothing else was said. He wasn't making any noise in the kitchen. I felt nervous that he was listening. What did he know about _Boris_? Hobie wanted to protect me from my past, but now it's been blown open, and there's nothing he can do to close it.

_Boris_ flashed a wry smile in my direction.

“Has definitely gotten old!” _Boris_ laughed, a sound that struck me in the ribs. I nodded, “What are you doing here?”

It was strange. He always seemed to have some form of smile on his face, like a young child. He was always smiling, either with his lips or with his eyes. Even dressed in black, he was smiling. His dark hair, his dark hair…

His hair was so dark.

I recognised his hair. I had never met anyone with hair so dark. I think I know it.

“Am here to ask you something.” _Boris_ said simply, running his fingertips gently over the furniture that crowded the room.

“Hm?”

“Do you recognise this?” He asked, taking out his phone and showing me a picture.

I felt the blood in my veins turn to sand. _Vegas._ The sand.

He showed me a photo of a bird trapped to a chain. Only… it couldn’t have been a photo. The background was stark and the bird was too... still. I knew this. I know this picture. But I didn’t know from where.

“The bird…” I trailed off, I was unsure. I had seen that bird somewhere. On a postcard? In the news? Mounted in someone’s home? My brain scratched at me again, something trying desperately to escape but I had no idea how to let it out. The photo felt like it had struck my heart, right where my mother sat.

It had struck right at the point where I hoped, one day, that she would come back for me.

“This painting,” _Boris_ said, slowly and carefully as not to startle me, “Is called ‘The Goldfinch’. You recognise it?” I nodded, I felt dazed, but it wasn’t me who controlled my actions. Something _other_ told me to nod.

“So you recognise little bird?” _Boris_ asked again, another small smile on his face, but it was a patient smile. A smile that would wait for anyone. His eyes were inviting. He spoke to me as if he had dealt with someone who had troubles before. Slow words, a lot of patience. I wouldn't have enough patience to deal with me–but I suppose that's just what _Boris_ was like: caring. He seemed to have some understanding of my situation. He didn't leave me in the cafe, or give up on me. _Boris_ let me grab his wrist, and that must account for something. Anything.

And it hit me: that painting _was_ in the news. It had been given back to the gallery, but I hadn’t heard anything else. Hobie came in and turned the television off, changing the channel before the lady began talking.

I sat, wondering what the hurry was. I wasn't paying much attention anyway–I was staring at the photo of the bird they had showed on the screen. Small, delicate. Stuck on a chain. Was it stuck like that? It's whole life? I wished a better life for it, even though it was a simple painting. I recognised it. I _knew_ that painting.

“That is good,” _Boris_ muttered, placing a strong hand on my shoulder, “You are starting to remember more.” The hand on my shoulder threw me off–all I could feel was his hand.

For a moment I thought my heart had stopped beating, but I think it was just because he smiled wider than I had ever seen.

“What does this have to do with me?” I asked, stupidly–I wish I didn’t sound so childish when I didn’t remember things–“I know lots of paintings.” _Boris_ nodded slowly, carefully again, and drew the rectangle in the air with his slender fingers like he had done in the café.

I’m not sure if _Boris_ is aware at how much I don’t know. He looks at me, trying to map the best way to speak to me–as if I were a child. I’m not a child.

“You once owned this bird,” He said suddenly, bluntly. Simply. I laughed, but he didn’t, “But now it is back in museum. Was on news little while ago.”

_My mother._

My heart ached again. It ached as I laughed; I was afraid if I laughed too quietly that _Boris_ would hear it trembling.

“My mother?” I said. It was hard for me to restrict my words, and on occasion they would slip out of my mouth before I was able to hold them in. Before I was able to stop them. Before I was able to think properly.

“Hm,” _Boris_ was being quieter now, the hand that was on my shoulder had slipped to supporting the back of my neck, “She is in your heart.” He tapped his forefinger to my chest, striking exactly where my heart hurt. We were close to having our foreheads touching, and even though I'm not always comfortable with physical contact–this felt okay. Having him so close felt safe. This was the safest I had felt in a long time, here: in his hands. He smiled again.

He was so full of smiles.

I was worried about what Hobie will say when _Boris_ leaves. Within a week, someone from my _old_ past walks in, and they are helpful. Charming. Kind. Welcoming. I felt like a thousand oceans had flooded over me that night, after meeting _Boris,_ he felt like a breath of fresh air.

I hope he stays. I like _Boris._

I think I remember his last name.


	3. I live in a hologram with you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 3/3 !   
> title from 'buzzcut season' by lorde as it was my main inspiration for this fic !  
> i hope you enjoy <3

It had been a month since I had first met _Boris_.

When he left that night, the night of the painting, Hobie didn’t speak to me. He looked through me–as if I wasn’t there. As if I was a ghost. He refused to talk about _Boris._ Hobie would always dismiss me.

But I still didn’t know why.

I had asked _Boris_ when I was in his apartment a week later, staring at his bedroom–plain, unused sheets. No photos, only a glossed box with a gold clasp.

“May I open this?” I asked, staring at it. _Boris_ hummed somewhere behind me, trying to organise the clothes in his wardrobe. I had noticed that _Boris_ let me into his apartment as he worked on something else. He didn’t say much about it, and I enjoyed spending time in his company.

There was just something about him.

I opened the box carefully. There were trinkets in it, but not many. A few leather band bracelets–which looked worn–and a pair of earrings, a few silver rings.

“Are these yours?” I asked, holding up the earrings. Green emeralds on a gold attachment.

 _Boris_ turned around from the wardrobe and faltered when he saw what I was holding. He smiled again–always with the smiles–and walked over to me, placing a hand on my shoulder.

I don’t think I would ever be used to him placing his hands on me, no matter how long I knew him. His hands stopped my heart.

“You gave these to me.” _Boris_ said quietly, taking one earring from my hand and admiring it.

I frowned, looking at the green in his hand.

“I don’t have my ears pierced.” I told him. They seemed familiar in his hand, the way he held them so gently: it reminded me of something.

Everything revolved around the painting.

_The painting. The painting._

_My mother._

“These earrings–”

“–Belonged to my mother.” I finished for him. These were my mother’s earrings. Her emerald earrings. She wore them when she visited me in the hospital. I still haven’t seen her–not even in the houses that I see in my dreams. Houses that I don’t recognise, big open spaces and a swimming pool.

A small apartment with music record-sleeves pinned to the walls.

 _Boris_ nodded, “You want them back?” he asked.

I did, but I wanted him to have them more.

“You have them.” I told him. He swept the black curls from his eyes and looked into the mirror in front of us.

I hadn’t noticed but he had piercing holes in his ear.

I watched him as he concentrated, unclasping the earring and attaching it to his ear. He squinted as he focused, tongue slightly poking out of his mouth. I simply stood mesmerised.

He was so… indescribable.

I handed him the other earring and he hung the jewel from his other ear with more ease. _My mother._ What would she say if she saw _Boris_ wearing her earrings? Would she be mad? Or would she be happy for me? Happy about what?

My heart began to ring out throughout my mind.

“ _Gotowy_ ,” He muttered, “Done.” He spun and faced me.

I wondered if I felt like this with him in _Vegas._ Intense. Longing. Wishing.

 _Boris_ smiled at my face. I knew I looked startled.

I knew this man. I know that I knew him. The dark curls. The earrings. The pasty, scarred skin. His hands. His neck. His endless eyes. The earrings. The dark curls. _The earrings._ He’s worn them before. _Vegas._

There was that tapping again. In my head. In my heart.

“You stare too much, _Potter,_ ” _Boris_ laughed but it wasn’t rude. _Boris_ didn’t sound rude. _Boris_ had never been rude to me. He had been patient, and kind, and had slowly tried to explain _Vegas_ to me. Even when I couldn’t remember. Even when I couldn’t remember his last name.

“Why didn’t Hobie look happy to see you?” I asked, suddenly, unaware I was thinking it. I stared at the earrings. I stared at the smile that was still plastered over his face.

“Pah,” He laughed slightly, “Maybe you told old man about me. Was not always good… influence.” _Boris_ chose his words carefully.

“I didn’t tell him about you.”

“No, _Potter._ Maybe you told him about me… before.” He tapped an index finger on my temple like I had in the café. All those weeks ago. There was a glint in his eye.

“What would you have done before?”

 _Boris_ looked at me. I couldn’t read his face. His index finger was still at my temple—it burned my skin. Or maybe it was my skin burning.

He slowly lowered his hand, but he took my hand. It was limp at my side until he took it.

_Boris._

_Boris._

“Do you remember”–he often started sentences like this, despite knowing the answer will be ‘No, I’m sorry’–“Leaving _Vegas_?” He asked gently. I shook my head. His hand in mine felt familiar. Maybe I was trying to grasp something.

Something in the dark.

“Well…” He smiled, as if remembering a shared secret, “You had very… interesting send off.”

I suddenly felt embarrassed. I gripped at his hand harder.

“What happened?” I asked quietly, whispering in the gentle atmosphere.

 _Boris_ looked at me.

I think I looked back.

I think I stopped thinking.

 _Boris_ had made me feel more alive in the past month than I had ever felt in my life–from what I remember. My heart was going too fast. I felt too big. I tried to swallow.

 _Boris_ kissed me _. Boris_ leant up and kissed me, gently, carefully, holding my hand, lacing his fingers into mine.

_Boris._

_Boris._

Boris.

The tapping in my brain finally stopped. The gateway of my teenage years blew open, almost choking me.

Boris Pavlikovsky. From Las Vegas. From when we were teenagers. Hot, dry, burnt shoulders. The empty house with the swimming pool. Dried skin. Desperate gasps. The desert. Boris. The kiss.

The wave of memory made me feel slightly sick, the feeling of ink being shot directly into my skin. The scratch of a flu shot. I knew about _Vegas_ because he had told me. But now I _remember_ Vegas. That feeling in the pit of my stomach deepened. Boris was still kissing me.

Boris pulled back.

“I remember you.” I blurted, as he rested his forehead on mine.

“From kiss?” Boris laughed slightly–smiling, laughing, grinning, childish–holding his hand on the back of my neck.

“You kissed me… when I left Vegas.” I spoke quieter, closing my eyes. I felt him nod against me.

“I kissed you.”

There was silence. My heart was going too fast–even now.

I think I kissed him again. I know I kissed him again. I _recognised_ him. I knew him. His mutters in Polish. His hand on the back of my neck.

“And have wanted to kiss you again since you left,” Boris explained, rubbing his thumb against my neck.

He was so gentle.

I almost couldn’t stand it. His dark coats, his dark eyes, looking like he had never seen colour in his life—his father. But I knew the truth, the secrecy: he felt more than anyone else.

“Saw you in coffee shop, was fate,” He laughed through his nose, I smiled, “Did not expect to go on journey like this, Potter.”

My glasses. The bus.

“But any journey with you, is enough for me.”

I couldn’t take it.

I remembered him. Boris wearing the earrings made my heart ache. He made my heart ache where my mother sat.

“I hope you stick around, Boris.” I told him and he pulled his forehead back. I missed his weight against me.

“Was planning to, Potter,” He said, head tipped slightly to one side, the green glinting against the black of his hair, the black of his shirt. Always with the dark shirts.

I want Boris to stay. I think I once loved Boris. I know I have the ability to love him again.

Boris Pavlikovsky.

I remember his last name, and I don’t plan on forgetting it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the kudos and comments   
> & thank you to everyone who has read this fic !
> 
> am planning on doing more in the future so thanks for the support <3


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